


Inextricable

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Multi, Non-Sexual Bondage, Polyamory, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Athos imagines himself going back to that day when everything he knew fell apart around him; and he knows that given the choice, he would never face up to that again. [...] Aramis, by contrast, is willing to wade into the deepest, darkest waters of his own mind and shine a light there.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inextricable

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Bingo fill: ropes/chains.

As long as Athos has known him, Aramis has always been a man who talks. Confesses, even, unable or unwilling to keep his emotions private; and Athos sometimes feels that he and Porthos have been cast in the role of unofficial confessional for those matters of which Aramis _doesn't_ repent.

It's the women, mostly, who never love him enough, whom he can never persuade to stay. Though after all these years, Athos has come to suspect that on some level, Aramis chooses them for that very reason: he will never have to hurt them if their loyalties are as divided as his own.

On his worse days, fortunately rare, he talks about killing. The cold, calculating part of him that delights in it, the thrill of taking an enemy life; and the horror and disgust at his own ruthlessness that follows after, that only a fellow soldier could understand.

Neither Athos nor Porthos is Aramis, but Athos recognises they both have the potential to be; and that is what keeps them silent time after time as their friend bares the messy chambers of his heart.

They have something that amounts to their own ritual now: first supper at Aramis' rooms, and once they're all pleasantly sated and relaxing into the evening after a few bottles of good wine, Aramis will sit silently on the bare wooden floor at one of their feet, as though there were not a perfectly fine chair for him by the fireplace, leaning back against their legs, and starting to speak.

Athos finds there's never much to say in response, Aramis seeming to realise that words are his strong suit, and neither of theirs. If he wanted absolution, Athos thinks, he would go to confession, and have his account with God be settled. No, what he wants from them is just to be heard, and to be known.

Tonight it's at Porthos' feet Aramis sits, right hand resting on the toe of his boot, as if to anchor himself. He's silent for a long while, and when the words do finally come, Athos is surprised by what's on his mind, after all this time: the Moreau mission.

Though it was maybe two years ago now, Athos remembers it well. Aramis undercover, working to bring down a ring of men bringing young girls into Paris and selling them to brothels – and then one evening, not making his rendezvous.

After that, not even Tréville could have stopped them bashing down the front door to get to him; and unsurprisingly, it ended in a firefight, Athos shooting pistol after pistol like a man possessed, thrusting and slashing almost without conscious thought, cutting down men like saplings, his missing brother the only thought in his mind.

Then a different sort of movement caught his eye, and he turned to see Aramis walking slowly and carefully out of a back room as the last men fell, leaning heavily on Porthos, and looking as if he barely knew them. Haunted, in a way Athos hadn't seen since Savoy.

They had hog-tied him, Aramis told them a few weeks later, when he could finally bear to speak of it; and just left him for hours in that room, to contemplate his slow and certain death. And what he had found there amongst the cold and the dirt was his own deepest fear.

Being tied up and left alone had made him panic, weep like a woman, chafe his wrists and ankles raw in desperate attempts to free himself, until he was too hopeless and exhausted and just lay there in the dark for he knew not how long, convinced that his God had abandoned him. Unable to move, and thus unable to act, powerless to do a single thing save wait and pray that his brothers would come for him.

Every man has his undoing; both he and Aramis have lived theirs, and so Athos thinks he understands.

Which just makes what comes next all the more surprising.

"I… want you two to do it to me," Aramis says, fingers twisting in his lap, not looking at either of them. "Again. Help me work through it."

"What do you mean?" Porthos asks in confusion.

Athos understands immediately; and wishes he hadn't.

"I _mean_ , tie me up. Like I was then. And keep doing it until I can handle it."

There are a few seconds of horrible silence.

"You're asking us to seriously mess with your head!" Porthos replies at last, his expression one of disbelief.

"It's a _weakness_ ," Aramis counters immediately, as though he's thought of all possible objections and prepared a response for every one. "If you couldn't shoot, say, we'd teach you. We wouldn't wait until you needed to fire a musket and then kick ourselves for doing nothing.

"Lefebvre was held hostage last week," Aramis continues, and Athos suddenly realises where all of this has come from. "They tied him up, and he kept his head and got himself out of it. I'm a liability if I can't do the same."

Porthos falls silent again, seemingly outpaced by the strength of Aramis' conviction.

As he looks at Aramis, jaw set and determined as he turns to meet his eyes, Athos imagines himself going back to that day when everything he knew fell apart around him; and he knows that given the choice, he would never face up to that again. He would run, instead, and never stop running even if it made him damned.

Aramis, by contrast, is willing to wade into the deepest, darkest waters of his own mind and shine a light there.

The very idea of it makes Athos feel a little dizzy.

The hand Porthos rests on Aramis' shoulder is measured, cautious, as it always is with him, even when the three of them are alone. As if he's keeping something in check.

"I don't like it," Porthos says grudgingly, "but I'll do it."

"Athos?" Aramis asks carefully; and Athos realises he's still not spoken.

Probably against his better judgement, he nods his assent. "When do you want to start?"

 

* * *

 

They hold him down, first, Porthos' arms linking through his and bracing Aramis' back against his chest, Athos holding Aramis' calves tight to his waist. After a few minutes like this, though, it's clear that it's having no effect other than making Athos himself feel distinctly awkward.

It's not until he binds Aramis' hands together in front of him that Aramis tenses, breath hitching and labouring as the rope wraps round and round his wrists in a wide band; and Athos knows all too well how it looks when a man's trying to swallow the first stirrings of panic in his breast.

"Aramis. Look at me," Athos instructs, tilting Aramis' chin up with his right hand until their eyes meet, the still-loose ends of rope gripped firmly in his left. There's a grey cast to Aramis' normally warm brown skin, and the look in his eyes is hollow.

Athos doesn't like where this is going.

"Porthos, touch him," Athos instructs, voice sounding like a bell in the too-quiet room; and Porthos steps forward, crouching down behind Aramis and putting his hands on his shoulders. He pushes Aramis' collar aside to find bare skin, massaging the ridges of muscle gently. The picture they make is a great deal more intimate than Athos had expected, and he's glad he has Aramis' face to focus on instead, where the tension is seeping slowly out of every line.

"That – helps," Aramis says haltingly, something startled in his expression even as he noticeably calms. "It's keeping it at bay."

Athos nods; and before he can think too hard about it, he puts his own right hand on Aramis' bare forearm, thumb and finger slotting together with the edge of the rope as if he's part of it.

 

* * *

 

They go on for weeks like this: almost every evening they're not on duty is spent in Aramis' lodgings, tying his hands in front of him, then behind him, until Athos could have made the knots in his sleep; then stepping further and further away until his and Porthos' backs are against the wall, watching Aramis slowly unravel the dark tendrils of his mind.

It's more intimate than anything Athos has done for years. It becomes quickly apparent that what soothes and calms Aramis is touch – the feeling of bare skin on his – and Athos and Porthos are pushing him over and over to the edges of his humanity before laying on their hands, touching his jaw, his shoulders, his arms, and drawing him faithfully back to them.

It's adversity that makes comrades into brothers; and the three of them have been relying on each other to deliver them from danger for years. But this is something more, something deeper. Perhaps it's that Athos and Porthos are the ones causing the pain they deliver him from, or the fact that none of them really knows what they're doing.

Once Aramis has adjusted to having his hands tied behind him to the point of toleration, and Athos and Porthos can leave him alone for a quarter of an hour without any adverse effects, they agree that it's time to tie his ankles as well. Porthos wraps the rope around Aramis' breeches, which Athos is glad of, the idea of stripping him to shirt and smallclothes somehow unbearable, when he feels like they're already stripping his mind bare.

It's only a matter of minutes before it's clear that Aramis isn't coping, can't bear this much longer, almost as bad as the first time they tied him. Every line of his body is so strained, expression so drawn that as Athos removes the rope keeping Aramis' wrists in the small of his back as swiftly as he can, Porthos working at his ankles, he considers drawing his knife and just cutting him free instead, to save him another moment of this.

As Athos finally slides the loose coils of rope over his hands, Aramis brings them protectively round to the front of his body, not sitting up but curling into himself in a way that's horribly private.

Athos and Porthos share a helpless look.

Then Porthos strips his shirt off, before hauling Aramis into a sitting position. "Come on," he murmurs, pulling Aramis' shirt loose from the waist of his breeches and over his head.

Aramis numbly allows Porthos to remove his shirt, not responding at all until Porthos presses his bare chest against Aramis' back. Then Aramis instinctively leans back against him, eyes drooping shut – but not before Athos has seen the glint of tears there.

Something twists in his chest at the sight, and he gets unsteadily to his feet and walks over to the window, suddenly cold in his shirtsleeves.

When he turns back, Aramis has opened his eyes again, and is making half-hearted, abortive attempts to pull away from Porthos; who has his arms crossed over Aramis' chest, and is holding him firm. Aramis meets Athos' eyes almost guiltily, and Athos realises with a jolt how his behaviour must look to them, and that right now Aramis is more important than his own uneasiness.

"Aramis." Athos walks over and squats down so he's level with the two of them, putting his hands on Aramis' bare shoulders. "Don't try to move," he says contritely, squeezing gently and encouraging Aramis back against Porthos' chest.

Aramis' hands grip Athos' wrists tightly, holding him in place; and Athos kneels between Aramis' legs to stop himself overbalancing.

"It sends me back there," Aramis says hollowly, "to that warehouse. I could hear gulls, but nothing else. Not for hours."

His hands curl into Athos' own.

Athos has heard this all before, of course; but he holds Aramis' hands tightly and listens as intently as if it's the first time.

"It wasn't the first time I'd faced death – far from it – but it was the first time I'd been made helpless and given time to think on the inevitable. I just remember those gulls, and feeling so cold, and like I couldn't breathe properly. I didn't think anyone would come for me," his voice breaking into a sob.

"We did," Porthos says seriously in Aramis' ear, running a thumb along his collarbone, knuckles pressing briefly against Athos' wrist. "We came for you, remember?"

"And we always will," Athos continues, with quiet certainty. This, at least he knows to be true: each of them is inextricable from the other, and they will always return to each other like a compass needle to north. "Whatever happens."

"And I might just be able to bear it until you do," Aramis replies with a weak smile, gratefulness shining through in every word. "But – I don't think I can bear to be alone tonight?"

"Of course," Porthos replies for both of them, "we'll stay," and Athos nods his accord, his heart suddenly buoyant in his chest.

He shouldn't yearn for this as much as he does, the guilty joy of sharing a bed with them. It happens when they're very drunk, too exhausted to resist, or when one of them is hurting; when their guards are down to the point where they no longer care about what's appropriate and instead seek physical comfort, pressing their limbs together in the dark.

He's shared beds with other men many times since becoming a soldier, but it's only with Porthos and Aramis that they seem to gravitate towards each other in the night, waking curled together or with limbs interleaved, as though they are parts of each other that try to return to a whole in sleep. It's only then that his customary morning hardness is somehow shameful, taking him a shade too close towards the unthinkable.

He doesn't know if the other two feel the same way. Even acknowledging his feelings – or even worse, voicing them – is like standing at the mouth of a sheer drop into the earth and considering plunging into the blackness below.

It's difficult to believe, though, that Aramis and Porthos don't know something of his mixed emotions. While he still holds his innermost secrets and shames opaque from them, this thrums so close to the surface that he's sometimes sure they can read it in the tense lines of his body, his hesitance as he lies down with them, letting Aramis press his own forearm against his but giving nothing away.

Tonight, as they all strip to their smallclothes and Porthos pulls back the coverlet, it's Athos as usual who snuffs out the candle, taking a moment to collect himself, so he doesn’t have to show them his face in the light.

As darkness falls in the room, he turns back towards the bed; and as his vision adjusts, he sees that a long-held barrier has fallen away: Porthos' arm is wrapped around Aramis' torso, pulling him back against his chest in an echo of their earlier posture. The coverlet ends at their waists, and Athos wonders with distant alarm if their bodies are pressed together head to foot.

He stops dead. He can't possibly –

"Athos." Porthos says, soft but urging, and then Aramis reaches out a hand.

And Athos' nerves are already stripped raw, and he's exhausted from holding back; it might just be an excuse to take what he knows he wants, but he can't say no to Aramis tonight.

He steps forward to take Aramis' hand in his own, allows them to encourage him onto the mattress and drape the covers over him, still holding himself a few inches apart, but clinging onto Aramis' hand like a lifeline.

Porthos' hand comes to rest on his waist, and they both feel hot to the touch.

Athos feels as if he's burning up.

"Athos," Aramis breathes his name, and with a jagged exhale of breath, Athos gives into his weakness; burying his face in Aramis' shoulder as they pull him close, hold him tightly against Aramis' body. His chest hair is brushing Aramis' own, their forearms pressed together where Aramis still grips his hand.

 _Family_ , he thinks a little wildly, relaxing minutely into their touch, both rubbing circles into his back. It's alright, really it is; they are his family now, and to live his life never being touched again would be a misery.

He can't imagine allowing this to anyone else.

"I suspect I'm not the only one this feels right to," Porthos says, in such a low voice that Athos is surprised he's heard; but dread still settles like a rock in his stomach, just when he'd started to feel safe.

Aramis laughs shakily. "All I know is, it seems to me like nothing could ever be enough."

Athos feels as though his throat's seized up, and he squeezes Aramis' hand even tighter, hoping to say through touch what he has no words for.

Then he hears the unmistakeable sound of lips on skin.

"Porthos, don't tempt me, please," Aramis almost begs, sounding choked. "We can't. It's wrong."

"Is that what your heart tells you?" Porthos replies, and Athos feels Aramis tense, before slowly shaking his head in surrender. "Where I grew up, we knew the value of love. That it was more important than what's supposed to be right or wrong."

 _Love._ The word hangs in the air; and Athos knows instinctively that it's true.

"Let me," Porthos says, encouraging Aramis onto his back, and Athos shifts until his chest is pressed against Aramis' side. "Aramis –"

Aramis lets out a startled moan as Porthos kisses his neck, and Athos finds he's holding his breath, staring at the place where he can just about see Porthos' lips moving down to the base of Aramis' throat.

Aramis moves their joined hands to rest on his stomach, where skin meets linen.

Athos shifts, presses his head between Aramis' neck and shoulder, startling as he accidentally pushes his arm against an unmistakeable hardness in Aramis' smallclothes.

Aramis gasps; then murmurs nervously, "Apparently having the inside of my head rearranged will do this to me."

Athos hums in reply, not knowing what to say, not wanting to break the spell; and presses his cheek against Aramis' shoulder. Even with Aramis' warm skin under his lips, he does not dare to kiss it; instead, his eyes straining to see Porthos' movements in the near-dark, leaning over to mouth at Aramis' nipple, hand finding both of theirs on Aramis' stomach and squeezing for a moment before moving down to a place that makes Aramis buck his hips and gasp.

"Athos," Aramis hisses in his ear. "Talk to me."

"I'm –" Words fail him for a moment. "I'm here."

 _We're the rope_ , he thinks suddenly, almost absurdly as Aramis cups him boldly through his smalls and he gasps for air, desire hitting him like a punch in the stomach. He doesn't know if the other two would understand, or if Aramis would even welcome the metaphor given his experiences; but in his mind at least, the three of them are woven together like the braids of that rope, mutually strengthening and holding fast, greater as a whole than apart.

 _Inextricable_ , he thinks, feeling Aramis begin to arch and groan against them, and in the end it's only natural that they should share this too.


End file.
